Shadow Of The Winter King (Book 1) (32 page)

“Regel?” Moving quietly, Ovelia had approached within two paces of him. Mask lingered behind, deeper in the corridor.

Regel reached across and touched the carved necklace she wore. It was the dragon he had carved for her and hung on a leather cord—his gift to her, on what he had thought would be their last night together. “I thought you discarded that.”

Ovelia’s hand went to her throat. “I have not changed as much as you think.”

“No, Tall-Sister,” Regel said. “You have not.”

She turned and passed back into the narrow corridor. Regel looked again to the unmoving guard. He checked the man’s bonds, then left him breathing shallowly.

Twenty-Four

A
s they stole through
the hidden passages within the palace of Tar Vangr, Regel saw Ovelia remembering. Her eyes might drift to familiar corners, or her fingers trail along one wall or another. He hoped her memories were fond—his own memories were anything but.

Long ago, he’d spent many lonely days prowling these passages to learn every twist and turn, to discover every potential hiding place. At the height of his skulking days, he could get from any chamber in the palace to any other in a matter of moments. The tunnels had been his kingdom, and stories of the palace’s guardian spirit had not been so far-fetched as many believed. How many nights had he shadowed the Winter King himself through these passages, carving in hand, senses alert for any possible foe?

He had taken to following Semana and Ovelia—the princess and her warder-in-waiting—as they thought themselves alone in the darkness. He’d heard the words they’d shared: the secrets of girlhood and the stirrings of an enduring bond. He’d never been able to join them, of course, but could only remain the specter in the shadows, protecting them. It had not been right to intrude—he knew that—but he had been young, foolish, and in love.

“Lord of Tears,” said Mask, her voice softly curious at Regel’s shoulder. “Why do you call her Tall-Sister? She is no sister of yours.”

He smiled wanly. “You would not understand.”

“You think not?”

“I know enough of you to think so,” he replied.

“And I cannot surprise you? Until yestereve, you thought me a man.”

Regel looked down into the arrogant face shrouded in black leather. Mask’s arms were crossed over her flat chest in a conceited posture. The illusion was quite convincing, though now that he knew the truth, he could see echoes of womanly movement in Mask. He wouldn’t have believed it, but she seemed to be
pouting.

“Very well,” he said. “Ovelia was heart-sister to Princess Lenalin.”

Mask looked at him quizzically. “Semana’s mother?”

“Just so.” Regel smiled. “Thus Ovelia named herself, as the taller of the two. Simple.”

“A stupid choice,” Mask said. “Her friendship brought her above her station, such that she earned a name as a child. And yet, she made such an asinine choice for her first name.”

“No,” Regel said. “She chose the name she did to show her devotion to Lenalin. That she wanted to live a life defined by her.”

“But she betrayed the Blood of Winter,” Mask said.

The humor drained out of Regel and his face fell. “We are creatures of duty, Ovelia and I,” he said. “I would not expect you to understand.”

“It was
duty
to slay her heart-sister’s father?” Mask said with a ragged chuckle. “I would hate to have her sworn service under me. Either of you.”

Quick as a striking snake, Regel grasped Mask by the throat before she could react. He pushed the sorcerer against the wall. “You listen to me, and you listen well,” he said. “Ovelia shed blood and suffered for Lenalin every day. None loved the princess so well as she did.”

“Not even you?”

Regel hesitated. Ovelia had passed around a corner, leaving them alone.

“Oh come now,” Mask said. “Do not deny it.”

Regel clenched his jaw.

“Was she beautiful?” Mark smiled in her mask. “Was she sweet and demure? Was it her face or her body you loved? Did you dream of her by night or spy on her as she slept?”

“You cannot ask—”

“And yet,” Mask said, heedless of his words. “You rutted the Dracaris whore because you could pretend she was your princess. Tell me I lie, Lord of Tears.
Regel
.”

Regel could not find his voice.

“You let her die,” Mask said. “You let Princess Lenalin die because you loved her and she did not love you.”

“Stop.”

Mask’s lips were close to Regel’s now. “The hands that slew her were not yours, but you killed her just the same. And for what? Jealousy—”

The last ragged word choked off as Regel tightened his hand around Mask’s throat.

“You listen to me, you Ruin-scarred hag,” Regel said. “I loved Lenalin more than a wretch like you could ever understand. She died because she would not let me save her.” His eyes narrowed. “And even that does not nearly match how
Ovelia
loved her.”

Mask’s mouth opened, but Regel crushed her back against the wall and stifled sound.

“If you question either of us again, I shall put an end to your words. I swear it.”

He expected Mask to retort with irony, but instead the sorcerer only stared at him. Considering.

Ovelia’s head appeared around the far corner, silver-blonde hair flashing in the blue torchlight. “What passes?” she asked, her voice dangerous.

“Naught.” Regel eased Mask down.

Ovelia looked to Mask for confirmation, but the sorcerer waved. “Peace, Bloodbreaker,” the sorcerer rasped. “All passes well.”

Ovelia gave them an uncertain nod. “Make haste.” She vanished around the corner.

Regel started down the corridor, but black-wrapped fingers brushed his ankle. He turned, eyes thunderous. Mask knelt before him, hands on his calves in the old supplicant’s pose—a tradition as ancient as hospitality or honor. “What of Semana?”

Regel tightened his fists. “What of her?”

Mask’s red-rimmed eyes were brighter than fresh steel. “Did you love Semana as you did her mother?” Regel saw her lick her chapped lips. “And does Ovelia?”

“What does it matter?” he asked.

“It matters,” said Mask. “Answer me this, and that shall be the end of my questions.”

A refusal came to Regel’s lips but he held the words. He remembered Ovelia’s plea that first night in the Burned Man tavern, and the ardor in her eyes as she knelt in the alley and promised her lifeblood in exchange for vengeance. She’d spent all of her resources on the hunt for Mask, even traded her body for passage to Luether. She’d committed treason against the Ravalis and thrown her lot in with a man who most had reason to hate her. All of this she’d done for Semana—just to
avenge
her, not even to save her. And now that they had some hope...

“Is there a heart that beats here?” Regel knelt and laid his fingers against the cold leather that wrapped Mask’s chest. “For if there is not, then you cannot and will never understand what Semana means to that woman—or what they both mean to me.”

Mask started at him, her eyes awed.

“Only know this,” he continued. “If you are lying—and Semana is dead—then when I am finished with you, whatever scars or disfigurements you bear will be as lady’s rouge on a beautiful maiden.” He drew his hand away. “Do you understand?”

The sliver of Mask’s mouth he could see twisted into something like a smile. “Promise?”

Regel turned, and they moved on.

* * *

They came at least to their destination: a private sitting room, windowless, buried in the heart of the palace where the Narfire rose. Regel understood why a scion of summer like Demetrus would favor the heat of the eternal fire buried deep in the mountain. Spyholes allowed Ovelia to peer through, while Mask hung back and leaned against the opposite wall. Regel stood between them.

“Is the king within?” Mask asked softly.

“I believe so,” Ovelia said. “A woman is sitting by the bed, tending to him.”

“Maure?” Regel leaned to look through the spyholes.

“Too dark to tell,” Ovelia said. “But this one seems slender. Young.”

“What does it matter?” Mask asked, her voice guttural. “You see his face?”

“No.” Ovelia pulled away from the wall and met Regel’s eyes. “What do we do?”

“We strike,” Mask said. “The two of you. Go and slay him. The woman too, if needs be.”

Regel and Ovelia exchanged glances. “Why not kill him yourself?” Regel asked. “Unless now is the moment you choose to betray us.”

“No.” Mask’s eyes darted from Regel to Ovelia. “I am in earnest.”

“Where are the guards, Mask—to take us prisoner and behead us for attempted regicide?” Regel kept his voice mild but he drew his falcat halfway. “What reward will you receive?”

“No.” Mask’s eyes lit with green fire and flame danced along her fingers. “Heed me—”

“I will do it,” Ovelia said, breaking the growing tension. “For Semana, I could kill a thousand kings in a thousand bedchambers in a thousand cities.”

When she spoke, it was not Regel she gazed upon, but Mask, who nodded slowly. Regel sheathed his scythe-sword.

“Very well,” said Mask. “Go, Bloodbreaker. Bloody your hands with a second crown.”

Ovelia reached for the latch.

“Wait.” Regel seized her hand. “We do this together.”

Ovelia’s eyes widened. “But you just refused—”

“I do not trust her, but I trust
you
.” Regel pulled Ovelia closer. “Let us be bloodbreakers together. There need be no other divide between us.”

He kissed her lightly as Mask watched, eyes flickering in the candlelight.

“Draw your sword, Tall-Sister,” Regel said.

“You cannot spill Demetrus’s blood,” Mask said. “Remember the blood ward summoning Vhaerynn to the hall.”

“The sword isn’t for the king.” Regel nodded to the blue torches. “When this door opens, the light might disturb them.”

Ovelia drew the Bloodsword, and immediately the nearby torches guttered and died in its devouring magic, plunging the three of them into darkness. The only light came from the crimson flames flickering along the blade and the simmering green magic of Mask’s helm. In that dull illumination, Regel drew a cord of wire from his sleeve: the garrote he had used in Luether. Death by wire was ignoble, but this was not the time for honor.

“Watch the sword,” Regel said. “We’ll need its warning magic, if this is a trap.”

Ovelia nodded.

“Are you coming?” Regel asked Mask.

“I can watch from here,” Mask said. “And if all goes awry, I can destroy you all with a blast of Plaguefire. Thus, even in death, you’ll succeed.”

“How reassuring.” Regel drew the carving focus out of his pocket. He detected guards outside the private chamber, but if they did their work in silence, all would pass well. He drew his senses out of the object. “One thing more.”

Ovelia’s eyes widened. “Regel, are you sure?”

“Sure about what?” Mask asked. “Why do you wait?”

Regel opened his hand to reveal the carving. Over the last day, it had taken shape, and though it was not finished, it bore a recognizable form. He had rounded its edges and carved three hollows like eyes and a mouth.

“A face?” Ovelia asked.

“A mask.” Regel extended the carving toward Mask.

The sorcerer regarded him warily. “What is this?”

“There are moments worthy of remembrance,” Regel said. “And they should be marked.”

Slowly, not daring to break their shared gaze, Mask claimed the carving from Regel’s hand. She looked at the dawnstone mask, small enough to fit in her palm, and Regel thought she trembled.

Time to move.

Regel gestured for silence, then pushed the latch up and slid the door open, making little more than a whisper on the stone. Silently, he stepped into the dark room, and Ovelia followed. He recognized the lionskins strewn about the floor, the roaring fire with its sickly heat, the sheets like liquid velvet draped across the grand bed. He’d come here five years ago, the night Ovelia had slain the Winter King.

“Please, Regel,” Ovelia had said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please!”

He shook the memory away and crept forward, consciously relaxing his hands. He would need a tight grip on the garrote, but there was no sense causing himself pain. For the first time in years, he longed for Frostburn. Its chill would shield him from fear and hatred. The Blood Ravalis was a flame that had taken all he held dear: the Winter King, Ovelia, Princess Lenalin... He would not let it burn Semana away as well, not if there was a chance she yet lived.

He crept toward the woman sitting at the king’s bedside and raised his hands. The wire gleamed between his palms. Would her death be necessary? It seemed like five years ago, when he had slain Paeter. Then, he had spared a woman he did not know, and she had become the first of his Circle of Tears. Would this one be different?

The woman turned toward him, and for the first time he saw her face: Serris’s face.

At first, Regel thought his senses deceived him and he was lost in memory, but then Ovelia drew in a sharp breath of recognition. Regel saw the gag in Serris’s mouth and her wild eyes. Her hands were manacled to the bedpost and she could not stand. She shook her head frantically. Regel reached forward and pulled her gag free.

“Run,” she said. “Regel, you have to—”

The king’s blanket tore back, revealing a gold-armored man with fiery red hair and a short, thick sword, perfect for close-quarters combat. His armor emitted a high pitched whine as the thaumaturgy imbued in its golden curves rose and burned the air.

“Welcome, Oathbreaker!” Lan Ravalis said as he stood, lightning crackling around his blade. “And the Dracaris whore, too. And to think, I thought you’d be too clever for this trap.”

“Regel,” said Serris. “Regel, listen to me. Sarelle. Her name is—”

“Shut up.” Lan lashed his cleaver-like sword across and opened her throat before her next word, drowning her voice in a welling torrent of blood. Serris slumped off the chair, but the manacles kept her from falling to the floor. She hung from the bedpost, choking and gagging.

“Old Gods!” Ovelia gasped.

“I told you if you didn’t still that whore’s wagging tongue”—Lan shook blood from his sword—“that
I
would.”

Regel attacked without thinking. It was the same blow that had killed Lan’s brother five years ago, though Regel struck with his bare hand. The prince brought up his sword to parry, but the force of Regel’s strike snapped off the prince’s blade at the hilt. He might have carried through and flattened Lan’s throat, but the lightning woven into the prince’s armor discharged and smashed Regel against the wall. From the force of the blow, Lan stumbled off the bed, right into Ovelia’s assault. Draca smashed into the power armor with a loud
crack
. The prince fell back, unhurt and laughing wildly.